


a different ending

by 14winters



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood, Dr. Joan Watson, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, JWDB, Shinwell deserves better
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-16
Updated: 2017-07-16
Packaged: 2018-12-02 23:39:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11519931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/14winters/pseuds/14winters
Summary: An alternate ending to 5x22.





	a different ending

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this back in May 2017 after 5x22 aired. It's just a much needed catharsis for me. May or may not be added onto in the future, but for now it's a stand-alone.

Joan felt the faint pulse in Shinwell’s neck and her lungs seemed to collapse with the relief. Precious seconds ticked by while she shook the lightheadedness from her brain, her eyes, focusing on the injuries, the blood, the small pieces of life she held onto with all her being.

Her phone was in her hand without her remembering having taken it out. She dialed 911 with steady hands. But her voice came out harsh and shaking.

“I have an unconscious man suffering from multiple stab wounds. He’s lost…” Here she had to take a quick gulp of breath, feeling her own pulse increasing. “…Just over a liter of blood.” Only then did she notice her knees were damp with it. She checked his pulse again as she rattled off the address. Still there.

Hanging up the phone before the 911 operator could even finish their last sentence (“An ambulance is on—” was all she heard before shoving her phone back in her pocket), Joan took off her suit jacket with quick, jerking motions and began pressing it to the worst of Shinwell’s wounds in his back. Her mind was filled with how much blood, how many stab wounds, what the surgeon would need to do to save him, his weak pulse, his shallow breathing, his cold skin… His skin wasn’t that cold, no, not that cold. She couldn’t stop looking at his face, his closed eyes. The smell of blood and her own sweat filled her nose, almost nauseating.

When the paramedics arrived, she responded robotically to their questions. It took only a couple seconds for them to determine she was a former medical doctor—she could see it in their eyes, how they looked at her hands. She rode in the back of the ambulance with them, listening intently but saying nothing. Shinwell’s eyes remained closed. Every sight of blood drew Joan’s eyes—the blood on Shinwell’s skin and clothes, the blood on the paramedics’ gloved hands. It didn’t even occur to her to look down at her own hands and see the blood there.  

By the time Shinwell was stable enough for her to see him, hours had passed. He was still unconscious. Joan’s hands were clean without her remembering how they’d come to be so. Her clothes still smelled of blood. There was a cup of cold coffee in her hand, and it took a few seconds for her to remember it was Marcus who had given it to her.

When Sherlock walked in, Joan finally glanced at the clock. 5:50. There were no windows, she had no idea if it was day or night. Given the time of year, it could be both. Joan blinked a few times and looked up at Sherlock to where he suddenly stood on her left. His eyes were hard, and he studied her with a scrutiny she’d never liked—it was how he looked at suspects and witnesses. The only thing worse to be around Sherlock was a dead body.

“Watson,” Sherlock said, the two syllables of her name, as only he could say them, coming out with an unexpected heaviness. Joan had to concentrate to pinpoint it. Sadness. Empathy. Hurt. She looked away from him.

“He was stabbed three times, but the blade used was short. I must’ve gotten there only seconds after the perpetrator left,” she said, studying the screen displaying Shinwell’s vitals, following the lines of tubes back to his hands, his face. She listed off the other bare facts—how long his surgery had taken, who had been his surgeon, what she had told the paramedics when they’d arrived, how there had been no evidence of forced entry, how Shinwell must have known his attacker, how he must’ve been taken unawares, at what point he might’ve sent that text to her—

“Joan.”

Her name came out a whisper this time. She stopped talking, but did not look up.

“I brought you a change of clothes.”

Another pause. Then there was a touch on her shoulder, light, lingering for only a moment. She could see his hand withdraw slowly from her peripheral vision. She did not focus on his expression.

“I will stay here until you come back,” he said. She glanced up, only long enough to catch his sincerity, before rising and taking the bag of clothes he offered her. She took another look at Shinwell’s vitals, the movement of his chest rising and falling. Sherlock sat down where she had been, still staring at her, waiting for her to speak, or leave. She still did not focus on his face. She could not take her eyes from Shinwell.

“It’ll be alright, Watson. I’ll stay here,” he said.

The words filled the air between them and seemed to strike some space in Joan’s chest that had been still and silent up till now. She swallowed, took a breath, turned away and left the room.


End file.
